


Take a picture, it will last longer

by Faerydae, thekeyholder



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, a bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 12:10:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17080112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faerydae/pseuds/Faerydae, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekeyholder/pseuds/thekeyholder
Summary: Oswald doesn't really remember what happened the night of the Iceberg Lounge opening. It may be a side effect of the gas or something else, but the most annoying thing is that, even though there is photographic evidence on the front page of The Gotham Gazette, he can't remember what Jim's arms around him feel like.





	Take a picture, it will last longer

**Author's Note:**

> We had a lot of fun writing this story for the "scarf" prompt for Gobblepot Winter 2018 event :)  
> Fandomfourever was so kind to beta it; all other mistakes are our own.

Oswald stared at the newspaper in disbelief. 

He anticipated it, of course, after the disaster that was the Iceberg Lounge opening, but he still felt punched in the gut when he actually saw it. 

The headline. Who cared about that? People had been calling him names since he was barely able to comprehend what those names meant; he got used to it so long ago it only hurt his pride a little. The picture, though… 

He traced it with his fingers: Jim’s stoic face, his own crouched figure. Jim’s arms holding him close, almost hugging him, really. 

Oswald scowled and crumpled the paper, throwing it into the fireplace. He couldn’t remember what happened that night, nothing but the things he felt so strongly: anger, disgust, shock, terror. 

Trust.  
Safety.  
Relief.

***

As much as Oswald tried to tell himself that the public's opinion of him didn't matter, he still couldn't just let the snide comments slide. Perhaps the best course of action was to divert attention from this story and confront the GCPD about their lack of success catching criminals. In front of the whole media, of course.

He strolled right in, demanding if Jim had caught the Scarecrow. The detective remained calm, answered with some platitude about how they were ‘on the case’. Bullock, however, decided to fight back with a low blow.

“What is a penguin, a bird or mammal?”

“Bird.”

Bullock took that damned newspaper from Jim's desk (Jim's! Why would he keep a copy?), holding it up high so the journalists could see it too. 

“Like a chicken?”

Laughter erupted around the room. Oswald's heart skipped a beat as he glanced at Jim, but strangely, he seemed embarrassed by Harvey's behaviour. Maybe… maybe Jim genuinely tried to comfort him, not just because he was forced by circumstance? After all, Jim was cradling his head in the picture. He couldn't dwell on that matter, though, and it made him even more irritated.

He went on a tirade about the GCPD being inefficient and how he was more successful in curbing crime levels with his licencing system, to which the mighty detective Gordon was so opposed to.

Once again, Jim surprised him. He didn't start yelling like he usually did, though he put his hands on his hips in a defensive pose and he worked his jaw. Obviously, he had a lot of things to say, but he controlled himself.

Was he suddenly immune to Oswald? Did he not care anymore? The thought scared Oswald even more than knowing that Jim hated him. In an attempt to hide his confusion he proposed a deal, so out of the blue that Jim didn't even get to register what it entailed.

Without waiting, Oswald reached out and grabbed Jim's hand, pulling the detective toward himself. It was a poor imitation of the hug, but Oswald got to feel the warmth of Jim's hand and a whiff of his cologne. Their bodies brushed against each other, and Jim's lips parted, eyes searching Oswald's.

That was the reaction Oswald was waiting for.

“Good for you, Jim. Game on.”

He smirked at Jim triumphantly, then turned towards the press, still hanging onto his hand.

And yet, that wasn’t the feeling he longed for so much.

***

Oswald was preparing for his lunch with Sofia, making sure that everything was spotless. He was only slightly surprised when Jim strolled into the Lounge – since his new acquaintance with Ms Falcone he had less time for the illustrious detective. Which was quite fortunate, as Jim looked so damn good that Oswald had a hard time playing it cool.

James, however, seemed very much in need of information, which pleased Oswald greatly. A cop, one of Oswald’s men, was killed. The gangster didn’t know anything, and frankly, he didn’t care. Jim urged him, though, put his forearms on the counter and leaned in so close, that Oswald could admire all the shades of blue of his eyes. His instincts were telling him that Jim wanted to get closer, to touch him, and even his usual insecurity about anything that concerned Jim couldn't prevent his mood from lifting instantly.

“Someone is trying to send you a message by killing the cop who was on your payroll.”

Oswald shrugged. He didn’t think it really concerned him. Besides, he had other issues to consider, like what Sofia was planning against him. Or what it would feel like to touch Jim’s hair. 

“Jim, if someone had a problem with me, I would know about it. And I would deal with it.”

The detective didn’t fight or grab Oswald by his lapels, as he used to. There was always an underlying aggression to Jim’s touches, but now he was soft, like a sharp rock in a creek that becomes smooth with the passing of time. No more towering over Oswald or yelling at him, just leaning into his personal space. 

“I guess you’re always one step ahead, Oswald.”

“It’s why I’m alive.” 

Feeling ridiculously flirty, Oswald winked at Jim. For old time’s sake, he gave Jim pieces of information that would help his investigation, and though the detective looked morose, he still had the decency to thank Oswald.

“I’m rooting for you, Jim!”

Oh, how he did.

***

Oswald was waiting in the car, watching the shadows of branches dance on the pavement. He still couldn’t comprehend how his day had gone so bad so fast. Pyg would have hurt his boy if it weren’t for Jim, though the detective had acted in an incredibly rash manner, risking Martin’s life. Jim had been so rude, Oswald could still feel his brutish grip on his arms.

Martin got back and sat next to him in the car.

“Did you find anything out?”

The boy glanced down, worried. He then showed his notepad to Oswald.

“I saw Sofia… kissing... the policeman.” Oswald’s voice started quivering halfway through the sentence.

His whole body turned cold suddenly.

“This is true?”

Martin nodded, making Oswald’s world crumble. How foolish he had been, just a few weeks ago! To think that Jim wanted to touch him. His stomach clenched and his eyes became watery, but he did not let loose the sob that so desperately wanted to get out.

He kept it in his chest until it turned into a desire for revenge.

***

“Oswald.”

His whole body hurt, he was exhausted, he wanted to believe that Ed would come back and, most of all, he wanted to get lost in the streets of Gotham before his luck ran out completely.  
Still, he turned around and looked at Jim Gordon, who stood in front of him and, as always, needed something from him. 

Not the thing he, at some point, wished so much to give to him; just the usual: names, dates, places. He had the gall to do it even after throwing him in Arkham. Twice.

God, he was exhausted.

“Thank you.”

His gaze slowly dropped lower to the proffered hand, and he absentmindedly noted that it became difficult to feel anything but fear or disappointment. Even surprise came with an effort. 

Oswald took Jim’s hand and squeezed it gently. He looked back at Jim’s face and tried to remember that feeling again. It came slowly, pooling in with the warmth of a friend’s hand holding his own, the relief and the gratitude. 

Love.

He gave up any hope for that oh so long ago that he could barely name the feeling by its real name; and he probably shouldn’t have, he thought tiredly, when the handcuffs clasped over his wrist, cutting the warmth and the trust off once again. Jim didn’t do anything to stop Bullock, and Oswald didn’t wonder why, even to himself.

He jinxed it every time.

***

Oswald’s fatal flaw was his loyalty, whatever anyone may say to the contrary. If he felt something strongly towards a person, he’d never actually stop feeling it. He was scared of Fish, and respected her, and that didn’t stop after he had thrown her off that roof. 

He trusted Ed almost from the start, when he was at his most vulnerable, and Ed didn’t use it against him, and even after everything that happened later he couldn’t help trusting him. 

And that feeling, the exhilarating combination of companionship, security and admiration that he felt towards James, that was what made him his first, most natural choice every time he was terrified out of his mind. 

He ran for him when he was under the influence of Scarecrow’s abominable gas after all; where else would he go the first chance he got away from that new lunatic?

“I’m out back. Come alone.”

Oswald paced nervously, without even noticing the dull ache in his ankle, waiting for Jim.  
He was aware that he was being ridiculous. He hadn’t thought it through, he didn’t even know if Jim would want to listen to him or if he would just throw him in the cage and lose the key instead.

The door opened and he saw the captain of the GCPD himself, waving at him to come in, and he absurdly thought that it’d be alright. He was not alone anymore.

“He scares the living hell out of me!” he shouted several minutes later, grabbing Jim by the arm. If only he could pretend to be gassed again, so he could just cling to Jim unashamedly, feel that comfort and security again, know if he had dreamt it or if it had actually happened. 

He was a bit sorry he destroyed that blasted paper, to be honest. The photo was the only proof he had of Jim caring about him, even if a little bit.

***

It was well past midnight when Oswald returned home. He sank onto a sofa, rubbing his leg. He really should get to the fridge and see if he could find anything in the freezer to put on his ankle; several hours of trying to steer the blimp away from Gotham while standing up hadn’t done it any good. The ride back home in a police car, where he was treated like a petty criminal – after all he had done! – wasn’t any better. Well, it was not like he really expected anything else.

The knife was out of his cane and in his hand the second after he had heard something – someone – move. 

“Please don’t kill me,” Jim said in a surprisingly amused voice. “You left this in the car. One of the uniforms found it.” 

Oswald shifted his gaze to Jim’s hand, once again extended towards him in a friendly gesture. There was a dark scarf in it. He touched his neck softly, registering how bare it was under his fingers. 

“You came all this way to…” 

He was interrupted rudely by Jim moving closer to him, wrapping the scarf around his neck. He hadn’t moved an inch, so most of the scarf ended up on his head, messing his hair up. Not that it hadn’t looked like a nest before that. 

“I came all this way to say I’m sorry. For leaving you on the… For leaving you.”

Great, Oswald thought. This was just the right time for Jim to finally apologise. When he could barely move.

He made himself take the scarf off, adjust his jacket and draw himself up to stand in front of Jim.

“I’m touched, James, really,” he said sticking his chin out, “but I don’t need your pity or…”

“Of course you don’t. Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jim interrupted him once again and put his arms around him, drawing Oswald closer, talking softly straight into his ear now, ”I really hope you won’t stick your knife in my gut for this.”

He was speechless for a moment. “You have a weird idea of what people stick their knives into other people for, Jim Gordon,” Oswald mumbled into his shoulder, staring at the cold fireplace to his right. 

He was thinking, inexplicably, about the texture of the leather jacket Jim was wearing for once, about the way the zip scratched at his face in a slightly uncomfortable way, about how he was leaning on Jim more and more with every second because he couldn’t really stand on his legs right now.

“Oswald, are you going to fall?” Jim asked suddenly, worry lacing his voice. 

“No, I’m not!” Oswald replied stubbornly. “But I would love to sit back down,” he added, surprising himself with this sudden information.

He tried to untangle himself out of Jim’s arms and, naturally, would have actually fallen to the floor, but for Jim steadying him and helping him sit down on the sofa.

Sitting down on the floor beside him. Taking his damaged leg into his hands.

“May I? They taught us how to relieve pain in the army."

Oswald covered his face with his hand. He had to be dreaming. Or maybe he had hit his head really hard. Or the blimp had, in fact, blown up and he was dead. Wait, that couldn’t be right, there was no way he had gotten into heaven.

He peered at Jim, sitting there and looking back at him like it was the most normal thing to do. 

“Better bring me some pills. They are in my bedroom, upstairs, first door on the left. Top drawer near the bed. And grab some water and an ice pack in the kitchen, I’m pretty sure you know where it is, since it’s the only way you could have gotten into my house without me noticing sooner.”

“Bossy,” Jim smiled and stood up. “I’ll be back in a minute.” 

Oswald leaned back on the cushions and took a deep breath. He wished he had asked Jim to bring a comforter too, and probably some whiskey. He wished he had a camera with a remote switch to take a picture of them with; a picture that would last this time. 

He listened to the footsteps in the kitchen, the faint sound of something getting knocked off the counter, the bang of the cupboard doors – how hard was it for a grown man to find a glass over there? – and thought that maybe he wouldn’t have to rely on a photograph to hold a treasured memory. Just this once. 

He looked at the opening door and smiled.


End file.
